


bruises and anger (have a lot in common)

by donutcats



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen, I have found a new trash son, I mean pete was an abuser what do you expect, mentions of abuse, physical and verbal and emotional too, there /might/ be a hint of carl/ron towards the end if you squint and wish upon a star
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 03:41:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5319074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutcats/pseuds/donutcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His mom has always said he could never stop poking at his bruises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bruises and anger (have a lot in common)

**Author's Note:**

> I watched the msf, and then I started thinking about Ron, and it started as one thing and somehow turned into something else entirely 
> 
> it's short, but I'm still proud of it

Ron’s life is split into two categories, Sober Pete Anderson and Drunk Pete Anderson.

Sober Pete, is the quieter category, not too surprisingly. It’s quiet anger, it’s a hand connecting harshly with the kitchen table, making him flinch even though he should be used to it by now. It’s having friends over after school to hang out, but constantly having an ear to the door for when his dad comes home. It’s Sam’s quiet, constant apologies and a large hand clapping him on the shoulder, harder than necessary. It’s fingers pressing and digging and whispered threats and his mom humming to drown out the sound.

Drunk Pete, is a different story. Drunk Pete, is loud, is violent. It’s a hand connecting harshly with his side, making him flinch even though he should be used to it by now. It’s bruises tucked away under clothing, where no one will see, because Ron learns there’s a difference between _knowing_ , and _seeing_. It’s spending most of his time at friends houses because he can’t stand to be in his own. It’s Sam’s quiet sobbing from the closet of his room. It’s volatile, like a molotov. It’s boots banging up the stairs and fists banging along the walls and voice echoing through the halls and his mother sniffling to drown out the sound.

Nothing changes when the dead start rising.

The only thing that changes is the house they’re living in.

Ron learns how to get through a normal day in the life of. He learns what to say and what not to say, how to move and how not to move. Gauging the rest of his day on how his father walks into the kitchen in the morning.

He learns when to take the blame and when not to. Learns that things are worse when it’s obvious he’s covering for Sam.

He learns to keep his own emotions, his own anger, concealed. After he snapped at his mom in frustration, and her eyes watered. “Don’t. Don’t you be like him Ron.”

He learned to bottle that shit up.

And then, Rick Grimes and company whirl into his life, this life he’s managed to keep together with wishes and lose bits of tape. They ruin it and rip it apart.

One day, he’s managing, and then the next everything is worse than it was.

To say he’s angry would be an understatement.

His dad is ripped out of his life so suddenly, it leaves a ragged sort of hole in Ron. Sure, he was an angry man, and sure he hit Ron sometimes, but really Ron could have done better. He could have made his dad less angry. He was still his _dad_ though, and it still hurts.

At first, it hurts like a punch to the gut, catching on his ribs, making him gasp, making him curl into himself, detach himself from what’s happening. Then it hurts like fingers curling into his arm, curling and pressing and refusing to let up, a sharp sort of ache, but not one that catches him by surprise. He doesn’t have to be detached for this sort of hurt. Doesn’t have to shut himself away.

It finally dulls into a bruise, the type that only really hurts when he pokes at it, where he can be present for it. His mom has always said he could never stop poking his bruises. It’s an angry splotch, purple blue black with frayed looking edges. It’s exactly how Ron feels.

Every time he sees Rick. _poke_. Every time he sees Carl. _poke_. Every time he sees any one of the people that showed up that day. _poke_.

The blame gets angrily shoved onto them, because it’s easy. Because the day they showed up marked the end of his already teetering world.

He’s left alone with this aching bruise, with fingers that latch into the storm cloud colored skin. His mom has never been great at focusing on both of her boys at once, and Sam gets top priority right now. Because Sam is younger, because Sam cries, because he locks himself away in his room.

Ron lashes out. He always has, and his mom rather not deal, and maybe he knows, deep down, that it’s the same thing his father did. He can’t help it though, can’t contain it when he’s too busy wrestling with revenge schemes.

Anger has taken up residence where grief should be, and Ron’s ok with this. Anger is something he can handle, it’s something he’s used to.

Grieving on the other hand. It’s not a familiar concept to him. He’s not in the mood to get familiar with it.

So, he’s left alone with it. With this ache and this anger.

“You’re dad was an asshole.” Carl says to him, and Ron doesn’t know how to answer.

 _I know_ , feels lackluster. It doesn’t encompass how deeply Ron knows. Because he does. He’s heard it from everybody, knows his dad was an asshole.

His shoulder still aches sometimes, from when he was ten, a reminder of how much Ron _knows_.

It bubbles inside of him, taking a shape, vague and unrecognizable, but it’s there.

Carl stands there, looking like he just delivered a line worthy of an epiphany, while Ron looks back at him, wondering how to word _I know_ into something bigger.

Into something that makes Carl feel the ache of his shoulder, or the dull ringing in one of his ears, the ghost of a door banging shut and rattling the hinges. Make him feel the reverberations of the floorboards with each stomp, the humming in his skin as he _waits_ , fingers twitching as the urge to _fight or flight_ pounds a song into his ribcage.

How do you make two simple words into something more, into something that’s beyond those words.

It’s impossible, Ron thinks, so he just ends up shrugging.

Maybe, that fight in the garage makes them even, maybe the way Carl lied to his dad makes them even, makes Carl understand a sliver of it.

Maybe there’s a bruise forming somewhere on Carl, maybe he’s had to lie before. Maybe, in some fucked up way, they’re not too different.

Either way, Ron doubts he’s ever going to understand. Doubts anyone will fully understand.

He'll be alone with it, with this ache and this anger, for as long as he lives. 

 


End file.
